The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “Don’t cry, pet,” begged a warm voice, breaking through her reminiscing.

  She jerked with a sniff and looked down in the darkness.

  Rafe stepped into a sliver of light under her window, tilting his face up to her, looking earnest.

  She bristled and hissed at the slash of pain she felt. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  His face turned incredulous. “Seeing you, of course. Step back, I’m coming up.”

  Margaret stared down in shock. There was no way he could possibly do such a thing. “No, don’t…” she protested, but he was already on his way up.

  He easily navigated the nooks and crannies of the walls, somehow finding a way up with ease.

  Against her better judgment, she stepped back and let him come.

  He climbed into the room and grinned rakishly in her direction, at which point she turned away, arms folded.

  How could he be here? How could he do this to her? Couldn’t he see she was not another woman for him to play with?

  It was all she could do to avoid bursting into angry, painful tears.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, coming over.

  She sniffed in disbelief. “What’s the matter?” she repeated. “What is the matter?” She whirled to face him, fury rising rapidly. “Where were you?”

  He fell back a step, hands raised. “What do you mean where was I? I was looking for you!”

  She laughed harshly. “Can’t have looked very hard. I was easy enough for others to find.”

  Rafe shook his head, apparently confused. “I have been searching all day for you!” he insisted, taking her arms. “I have been frantic, all day. Then I found out Bow Street had taken you to the Bounty, and I felt…”

  “Don’t talk to me about that place!” she cried, turning away. “Do you have any idea what that was like for me? To be sitting like a criminal in a place filled with ruffians and whores, to be treated like a common woman of no influence or standing, to be patronized by people who wouldn’t be able to go two hours without a strong drink! To be forced to wait for someone to fetch me home like a disobedient child, knowing they would bring me back to her and her plans for me… I have never been so humiliated! Or so frightened.” Her resistance crumbled and she burst into those tears, gripping her bedpost and leaning against it for support.

  “Oh, pet,” he said in a rough voice, coming towards her. “Sweet love, I am so…”

  “Stop.” She turned back to him, shaking and furious through her tears. “Do not play the knight with me, Gent. I’ll not be another one of your ladies to fall at your feet.”

  He stilled and his brows rose slowly at her words, and she saw his jaw tighten at the name she used. “Excuse me?”

  She strode towards him with fire in her step. “What a fool I was to think a man like you was real. That I was special.”

  His eyes widened. “You are.”

  “No more lying!” she cried. “I know about the others! Aggie and Rose and Bessie, Millie and Polly and Annie… That is what happened at the Bounty, I learned all about you. How you play the knight and show grand adventures, how you make all women fall in love with you at an impossible speed, but how in your heart you care only for yourself.”

  “I…”

  Margaret shook her head frantically, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You left me there! Alone! And now I am to be trapped in this room until she decides I am fit to come out, at which time I shall probably be forced to marry Sir Vincent because my parents will be told all the lies! And then you’ll have your wish, Gent, I shall remain in England, and you may comfort yourself with the knowledge that I shall hate you more and more every day of my life.”

  “It’s Rafe,” he pleaded softly. “Margaret…”

  She fought tears, and shook her head. “Get out.”

  He stared at her in agony, his hand outstretched.

  “Get out,” she said again, the words catching on a sob.

  Slowly he lowered his hand. “I love you,” he murmured.

  She closed her eyes, tears leaking out, even as her heart fluttered. “Get out.”

  She heard him murmur his love again, then she heard the sounds of him climbing back out of the window, the faint scraping as he started down the wall, and then nothing at all. She opened her eyes, saw the empty room, and moved to the window to close it, taking care not to look down and see if he remained.

  And then, after all of that, she sank to the floor and buried her head in her knees, sobbing silently.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The carriage ride to Aunt Ada’s the next morning was silent, and Margaret avoided looking out of any of the windows, for fear of seeing Rafe.

  Her sleep last night had been blessedly dreamless, but it had also been highly unsatisfying. She woke with as much fatigue as she had gone to sleep with, and her heart was heavier than before.

  Miss Ritson had allowed one of the maids to come help Margaret with her hair and dress, as Aunt Ada was considered high Society, and it would not do to offend her sensibilities by being underdressed.

  To be perfectly honest, Margaret was rather looking forward to Aunt Ada. She was harsh to Margaret, but at least she was honest, and she was familiar. This was something upon which she could rely, and she could nearly predict the weather by Aunt Ada’s behavior. This, at least, would not change.

  “Now behave yourself, Miss Easton,” Miss Ritson said, as if Margaret were all of eight years old. “And not a word of your recklessness to your aunt.”

  “Yes, Miss Ritson,” Margaret said automatically, wondering what would happen if she did not respond at all.

  They were shown into the drawing room, which somehow seemed to have gained more lace since the last time she was here, and waited for Aunt Ada to appear.

  She heard her before she saw her.

  “Good gracious, why do I let myself be talked into these things? What sort of generous soul willingly takes tea with her ungrateful relations?”

  “I am sure I do not know, Ada,” chimed another voice that rang with sympathy. This voice was familiar, but Margaret could not identify it.

  Miss Ritson frowned. “I did not know your aunt would be having company.” Disapproval was etched on her face, but Margaret was almost beside herself with glee.

  Someone else who would have to see this ridiculous spectacle? It was more than she could have hoped for.

  She fixed a properly demure expression on her face and straightened up in her olive-colored monstrosity of a dress.

  Aunt Ada entered the room first, looking as though someone had tried to dress her for the grave but had grown tired of the exercise. Lace flowed over and around her as if sprung from a fountain within her, and her frilled cap was slightly askew. The lace had no doubt been white at one point, but now was a cream with yellowed edges, rather like Aunt Ada herself, and the whole thing looked rather like Margaret’s morning porridge had.

  “Ridiculous business,” Aunt Ada muttered. She glanced behind her out into the hall. “Don’t dawdle, Tibby, this is interminable as it is.”

  Margaret gaped as Lady Raeburn followed her aunt into the room, shocking in her ensemble of pink and black, which so differed from Aunt Ada’s blandness. Lady Raeburn was always one for making a statement, and this was no different. The fabric shimmered and tightened about her pristine figure as she glided, and it was impossible to look anywhere else.

  Belatedly, Margaret remembered to rise and curtsey, and felt a brief stab of satisfaction that Miss Ritson had forgotten as well.

  Aunt Ada tsked as she looked over Margaret. “That is a horrible color for you, Margaret. Who is dressing you these days?”

  Margaret choked a little, biting back a laugh. “I am sure I do not know, Aunt,” she replied perfectly, knowing better than to besmirch Miss Ritson.

  Aunt Ada shook her head. “Tell me at least that you did not choose it yourself.”

  “I did not.”

  “Hmm.” She sat and offered up her cheek, whi
ch Margaret dutifully kissed. “I presume you know Lady Raeburn?”

  Margaret nodded and turned to the vibrant woman. “I do. A pleasure to see you again, my lady.”

  Lady Raeburn inclined her head and sat, her emerald eyes clashing with her red hair in a surprisingly charming way. “Yes, it is always a pleasure to see me, Miss Easton. But I am delighted to see you as well, though I fear you are looking a bit thin. Are you well?”

  Margaret heard Miss Ritson faintly clear her throat, and turned. “I am quite well, my lady, thank you. May I introduce my companion, Miss Ritson?”

  Lady Raeburn looked at Miss Ritson with an upraised brow. “If you must, I suppose. Is she companion or chaperone?” She glanced up at Margaret with a daring tilt to her chin.

  “Both, I imagine,” Margaret admitted, smiling.

  “I have been charged with aiding Miss Easton this Season,” Miss Ritson said in her most polite voice.

  “In her husband hunt?” Lady Raeburn asked bluntly, as she poured tea for them. “One lump or two, Ada?”

  “Two,” Aunt Ada grunted, sitting back.

  Miss Ritson looked perplexed by the question. “If you mean in her desire to make a good match, then yes, I am aiding her in that, but also in her navigation of society.”

  “Can’t have done a very good job of that,” Aunt Ada replied as she took her tea. “The girl is still as much of a spinster as she was before.”

  “And I’ve always thought Miss Easton navigated society quite well,” Lady Raeburn mused, handing tea to Margaret. “She is sensible and lively, has excellent manners, and she dances with grace and spirit.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Margaret beamed at her before sipping her tea.

  “Miss Easton, be demure,” Miss Ritson snapped.

  Aunt Ada cleared her throat. “I thought that was demure, Ritson. She didn’t misstep. I’m inclined to believe that monstrosity she is wearing is of your choosing, the way you order her about.”

  Margaret took another quick sip of tea to avoid laughing at Miss Ritson’s expression.

  “I advise Miss Easton on many things,” Miss Ritson replied as calmly as she could manage, her voice shaking a touch.

  “Of course, you do,” Lady Raeburn soothed, “and it does you credit. This dress, however…” She sighed and shook her head. “I have so many gowns that would suit her better. I wonder if I might have them sent over? They will only require a bit of alteration, nothing extravagant.”

  Miss Ritson stared at Lady Raeburn in horror. “Oh, I don’t think…”

  “Yes, that is obvious,” Aunt Ada interrupted, “but that doesn’t mean you cannot start now. Take the dresses, Ritson, Margaret needs to look appealing if she is to land a husband.”

  Caught between two powerful women, Miss Ritson had no choice but to nod and allow it.

  “Margaret, eat a tart,” Aunt Ada ordered when Margaret let the plate pass her.

  “Miss Easton is watching her figure, Mrs. Campbell,” Miss Ritson informed her with a prim sniff as she took a tart herself.

  Aunt Ada snorted loudly. “Yes, so am I. Watching it fade away. No man wants a waif for a wife, Margaret. Eat a tart.”

  Chastened yet again, Miss Ritson handed the plate of tarts back to Margaret, fuming.

  Margaret somehow managed to remain composed as she took one, then gave her aunt a look. “I thought you wanted me to be thinner, Aunt.”

  Aunt Ada gave her a very serious and almost warm look. “I wanted you to have a figure, Margaret, not to become one. Eat two tarts or I will cut you off.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” she dutifully replied, taking two tarts and earning herself a wink from Lady Raeburn.

  Thankfully, Miss Ritson had a reprieve from being attacked as Lady Raeburn and Aunt Ada spoke of the gossip surrounding ladies of their generation, though Margaret was quite sure Lady Raeburn was twenty years younger than Aunt Ada, and Margaret was able to focus on her tarts. She made sure to take small bites, and sip her tea carefully, so that Miss Ritson would have nothing at all to find fault in. She was watching Margaret very closely, no doubt cataloguing her faults for a later berating.

  They went on about it for so long that Margaret had quite lost track of the conversation, and would have upended her teacup, had there been anything in it, when Lady Raeburn asked, “What say you, Miss Easton?”

  Margaret managed to not look too startled, despite her suddenly racing heart. “About what, my lady?”

  Lady Raeburn smiled a little. “I knew you were not marking me, but Ada thought you were. I insist upon having you attend an evening at my home on Wednesday. My niece and her husband are to attend, as are Lord and Lady Blackmoor, and I believe your charming cousin Miss Dalton as well.”

  Margaret thought back on family connections, and if the Blackmoors and the Gerrards were attending, it was a fair bet that the Grangers would attend, which would mean that Rosalind would be there as well.

  A chance to be with Rosalind and Helen in a setting that Miss Ritson could not control? It was too good to be true.

  She had to play this carefully. She turned cautiously to Miss Ritson, fixing her expression into one of polite deference. “Miss Ritson, do I have your permission to attend the evening at Lady Raeburn’s?”

  Miss Ritson looked suspicious, and obviously did not want her to go, but she could not refuse a kind invitation from a lady of such standing, and she did so love Helen. “Of course, Miss Easton, it would be a lovely evening for you, and with such guests? You must attend!”

  Margaret looked back at Lady Raeburn with a smile. “Then I shall attend, my lady.”

  Lady Raeburn looked between her and Miss Ritson with a frown. “I was not aware that a woman of twenty-two must ask permission before attending a simple evening, but that is neither here nor there. You are to come, and I will be sure to invite several eligible gentlemen that will meet the requirements we have discussed previously.”

  Margaret choked a laugh that she turned into a cough, and pointedly ignored Miss Ritson’s curious look.

  “And for pity’s sake, Ritson,” Aunt Ada chimed in, sounding disgusted, “let Margaret pick her own dress. Your selection is atrocious. In fact, have Tibby send the dress. Anything is better than that.”

  They left shortly after that, with Lady Raeburn taking a private moment with Margaret to whisper that her “dear friend Mrs. Dalton” would be delighted to know that she had seen her today, which made Margaret want to hug the woman. Her aunt would be told of the situation, and perhaps Lady Raeburn would be an ally for her.

  Aunt Ada squeezed Margaret’s hands as they left, and winked, which was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen, but then, she was fairly certain she had imagined this entire day. Aunt Ada actually liked Margaret? That was a bewildering thought. But if her great aunt was friends with Lady Raeburn, there was hope for the old crone after all.

  Margaret smiled to herself as she and Miss Ritson made their way out to the carriage, and something made Margaret pause.

  She turned to look down the street, wondering…

  A familiar figure leaned against a building nearby, dark eyes intent on her.

  She ought to look away. She ought to sniff and turn back. She ought to frown or glare or something to show him she was still angry and he was not forgiven.

  But she didn’t.

  She stared back, breathlessly counting in her mind.

  At five he straightened up. At seven he tilted his head. At nine his lips quirked.

  And at ten…

  She smiled.

  Then Miss Ritson barked at her, and she loaded herself into the carriage, and when they drove passed, she looked out of the window.

  But he was gone.

  That smile…

  He could have taken on the entire French army and Napoleon himself for the promise of that smile.

  What amused him, and made him wildly curious, was the fact that she had exited her aunt’s home with a smile, which had never happened in all the time he had known her. The
fact that she had smiled more broadly at him, particularly after their last exchange, was beyond encouraging.

  But he would not presume anything. Not yet.

  He didn’t mean to follow her, not this time. He’d actually been minding his own business when he’d realized the day and his proximity to her aunt’s, and wondered if Miss Ritson might have kept Margaret’s schedule the same on certain things, and he was right.

  Seeing Margaret smile again was a breath of fresh air.

  He’d spoken with Tilda as well as with Rook and he now had a fairly good idea of what had happened yesterday, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that Margaret would hear a version of his story and reputation tinged by the women of the streets. Truth be told, he rarely spent any time with them, and certainly never in the regard that they were prone to suggest. At least three of the women had been Tilda’s girls, who were slightly more reputable than the average woman one might see there, but they were actresses, and sometimes even Rafe forgot their true profession.

  But they made valuable contacts and never missed details.

  Aggie had been invaluable this morning, once Tilda had brought her over to see him. Rose had added in some fine details as well, and the two of them led Rafe to believe that Margaret’s outburst was one borne of embarrassment and shock rather than her own true emotions.

  He thanked them for their insight, but doubted it was that simple.

  There was some truth to Margaret’s words. He had left her there alone, and he’d had his reasons. And Cap and Rogue would have shot him before letting him do what he wanted to, but he couldn’t explain any of that. There would never be an explanation for why he’d had to leave her there. He did have a healthy sense of self-preservation, but not in the way she thought. He had to preserve himself in some regards because it was highly dangerous for him to do otherwise.

  There were other women in his life. Dozens of them. Hundreds, if he were to count every single incident, and some of them were now in very significant positions in London’s society. Some were at the very lowest, and some, he was sad to admit, were now dead. But they weren’t romantic attachments, none of them. He hadn’t actually thought he was capable of romantic attachments before Margaret. He’d always just done his duty and looked out for those he could help. Then she had crossed his path, and his entire world had changed.